


The Talk

by epochryphal



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Consent Issues, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Strider Manpain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 15:30:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7807228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epochryphal/pseuds/epochryphal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So.  How 'bout that game over timeline situation.  Just because there's a new universe now, doesn't mean that never happened.</p><p>[dirkjohnweek day 4: MANPAIN]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Talk

**Author's Note:**

> mega thanks @conniedeer for beta

“Hey.”

John’s mop of hair shifts on your stomach, lazy as the green afternoon.  “Hm?” he says, half-focused on the rustling leaves – oak? maple? a Jane custom? verify later – that filter the light soft above you, and you just know the dappled shade across your face is shifting into the amorphous yet readily identifiable shape of a dick.  Classy.  It’s sweetly irritating, and timeless, and the grass on your neck is prickly-soft beyond your wildest dreams, and you half-wish you hadn’t said anything but oh, you never could drop a red-hot poker.

You say, “Roxy told me.”

“What’s that,” he half-asks, idle and staring into the sun once again.  You bite your tongue, literally, because this is where you can’t answer, where you have to let your b—let John figure this out for himself.  He will.  He’s smart, and you’re smart, and you know he will, so he will.  QED.  Instead of answering you hold your silence like you’ve practiced, counting it in heartbeats.

Around two hundred you consider he may not be thinking about it at all.

Alright.  Well, fuck knows you can hold a conversation all by yourself.  You’ve had this particular one a couple dozen times, in fact, running round your head ever since Rox got that look in her eye the night you wondered aloud, _d’you think Paradox Space only allows spares if they’re leashed as sprites?_

So which iteration do you want to deploy this time?  You could go for the _I don’t blame you, you know_ , all sappy and saccharine and daring him to argue.  Or maybe the more direct _it’s not your fault_ , cut straight to the heart of it.  There’s always the horrifically honest _you did the right thing_ , but you really don’t need that getting back to anyone else, and this isn’t about you anyway.

You settle on the fatalistic approach as a comfortably distant opener, and say, “It couldn’t have been any different.”

“Huh,” he says, or asks; you’re not sure which.  He’s got this blade of grass balanced on his upper lip that he keeps wiggling around, puffing it up into the air and letting it drift back down.  The shifting of his head to catch it is a move of sheer tactical genius: his hair brushing against you, lower, then higher again, is _extremely_ distracting.

But no, you will not be deterred.  He doesn’t want to talk about it?  You’re forcing the issue.  (The more things change, the more obviously you never will.)

“Terezi agrees with me, too.”

This time you can feel his shoulders tense against your hip, and it’s just reflex you swear but you have the core of him ready to yank the instant he tries to spirit away, lightning just inside your fingertips itching to arc out and pin that well-mapped spot.  You don’t…it’s not like – you just don’t want him to run away from this conversation.  He needs to have it.  He needs to stop pretending he isn’t affected.  It’s a boil that needs lancing and as always, you’ve got the blade.

“Dude, why would you bring her up, you know that’s not kosher,” John huffs at you.  He takes his piece of grass and points it at your face, waving around as he talks.  “We’re having a nice day with no trolls and no girls and especially no troll girls, but for some reason you’re trying to fuck that up!”

“Am not,” slips your cutting rejoinder.  “And you get along with Kanaya fine.”

“We don’t even talk, she’s too busy being monogamous.”  Shit, this conversation is getting thoroughly sidetracke—did John just dump a handful of torn-up grass on your chest.  “Anyway, shut up and get back to enjoying nature.”

“I can multitask,” you say in rebuttal, watching as he selects a blade of grass off your torso.  He peels it lengthwise like it’s string cheese, holds it above you and lets the shreds fall when he’s done with it, then moves on to another piece.  “And this is important.”

“Don’t care, too busy existing.”

Fucking infuriating.  Why did you even attempt subtlety with this ass.  "John, this is about your Dirk _not existing_."

"Pff, no it's not."  He rolls up your stomach to face you, glasses clinking, and you swallow your _the fuck else would it be about_ as he pokes right above your collarbone.  "I've got myyyy Dirk right here."

Oh.  That's.  …a very potent distraction which you must power through for the health of ~~the relationship~~ this obstinate traumatized douchewad.  "Your _original_ Dirk.  Who you didn't even try to safmghghh—"?? _? **???**_

"Shhhhhhhh, only nature now."  Howw inteh jfdukc—yuor mtouth cnn't—  "Man, you really gotta learn to listen better, Dirk!  When I say shut up…"  —hloy hsghit he’’s _lloomign_ —  "…that means you stop.  Talking."

There's _something_ holding your jaw open like you can't bite down on some thick fucking _air_ and you can't even inhale like this except through your nose and John is leaning over you now with this _danger_ to his friendly smile and you have never been so turned on in your life.

"That's better!" he chirps, patting your cheek, and you can feel the involuntary moan in your throat but it never makes it past the block around your tongue.  Your face is burning and your hands have dug into the ground so hard they're taking root and ffffuuuucking hell you're obvious.

John just sparkles his bullshit eyes at you and pecks a kiss to your chin before flopping right back onto your stomach, thereby knocking the wind out of you very literally.  You almost don't hear him over your labored nasal breathing, but the note of satisfaction in his tone keys your ears just enough to make out, "That's my Dirk."

You really don't notice how the rest of the afternoon passes, but when you go to pick up your Robeck that night, the ache in your jaw has you rubbing it in contemplation, and you settle for a nice evening with _Candide_ instead.


End file.
